Awash in Avarice
by ForAllThatIsGoodInThisWorld
Summary: The town of Sandpoint is a crossroads, a sprouting and growing place where destinies meet. The Book and the Staff come, seeking an answer to who they are. The Tankard and the Shield come, seeking an escape from who they were. The Wolf and the Flower come, seeking to change who they've become. Greed still sleeps, but his slumber ends. The Runelords Rise.


**ACT ONE**

_Chapter one_

_Severine_

_~The 1__st__ of Rova, 4707~_

Sandpoint.

A sleepy town some 40 miles north-by-northeast of Magnimar and home to just over 1,000 people. The usually quiet and secular town seemed quite alive on this wonderful day, the Desnan holiday celebrating the first month of autumn being a commonly practiced event in the frontier country of Varisia. My mother pushed me out of hearth and home with nothing but a bag, an oversized stick, and an obscure message, "Find your father." Pft, oh I'm sure I'll easily find him here, mother.

I roll my neck, trying to get rid of some of the stiffness, and pull at my hood to better obscure my face. You see, my kind isn't exactly openly accepted in, well, anywhere really (except Cheliax, but you know what? Fuck Cheliax).

"Now what," you may be asking yourself, "do you mean by your kind, Severine?" Well you see kind gentle-person who somehow has become privy to my thoughts, I am a Tiefling. More specifically a common sub-breed often called things like; Abyssal Taint, Demon-Spawn, or my personal favorite, Pit-Born

_Spreader of corruption, monster-born, Sulphur-blooded whore of darkness and shadow, _I hear it say, my blood boiling gently.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for edgy theatrics.

It's not an uncommon thing to hear about Tieflings struggling to hide themselves away from the rest of society, but if I'm quite honest, I got off lucky. Tieflings, like all mortal kind, can both be blessed or cursed by their genetics; personally, I feel like I belong in the latter group. The most common traits everyone hears about is the red skin, black hair, curling horns, and if that's the grading scale, might as well give me a failing grade because I'm sitting pretty at a nice 33.3%. My skin is pale as all get out, and my hair is silvery to match, I do have horns, but I've gotten pretty used to just filing those fuckers down every couple of days. It's no different than shaving your legs.

Except I regularly remember to shave my horns.

All discussions on winning the genetic lottery aside, I think I more than make up for where I got lucky with the karmic balancing in other places, namely the fact that I have a fucking tail.

Oh, and some vestigial wings that just continue to get in the way all the time, but that's more of a footnote than anything else.

Where was I again?

Oh, right.

So my mother gives me the boot out the front door and tells me that if I want to be able to prove I'm greater than all those bastards back at home, then I need to get out there and find my father; evidently, he is some kind of hot-shot out here in the Varisian hinterlands, hence why I've managed to wander my way here, considering Sandpoint is a nice, calm place to start looking for someone in the big emptiness that is the Varisian frontier. Seriously, this fucker is like, a thousand miles from one corner to another.

Metaphorical needle meet proverbial haystack

Seriously! How in the bloody name of hell does my mother expect me to find anyone without anything more than a "he looks like you." Are you fucking kidding me? Do you honestly think that anyone who looks like me would just broadcast what they are? You couldn't even give me a name? Gimme a break.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to get the blood back to my wings. Mother recommended wearing tight clothing underneath my armor to keep them pressed tightly against my back. For the most part, it keeps my cloak from flaring out around the oddly shaped lumps on my back but, by the gods is it uncomfortable! One of these days I'm going to say screw it and let them go wild. See the looks on everyone's faces as they stare blankly at the grotesque lumps of flesh vaguely resembling wings on my back. Oh gods, the hilarity!

_Let them scream in terror at the true face of our reality, _my blood whispers.

I wasn't all too inclined to participate in the festival, Desnan traditions never really being much of my thing, but I did have quite an enjoyable time waltzing through some of the games the people had put together for the Swallowtail Festival. I did notice a bit of a trend amongst some of the games, however. There was a contest where large men (and some _very_ large women, hot damn) competed by lifting weights enchanted to scale with size and mass with every successful lift. Another event consisted of little more than a long train of people arm wrestling one another, tournament style. Tug of War was an interesting experience, given that it's just yet another staple of the festival scene. Bottom line is, most of the games weren't very easy to participate in unless you were built like a gods damned bull. The event that caught my attention, however, was most definitely the balance beams. The event itself was quite boring, nothing more than a bunch of people trying to walk along a beam that gets progressively thinner as one walks along it. No, what truly caught my attention was the duo I encountered watching and taking part with the event.

Tower Street, the stretch of road passing the north side of the town hall, was packed with people watching as residents and guests to town alike attempted to best the beam. It started remarkably easily, with the beam being just under two feet in width, but as one continues their way down the beam, the width shrunk rapidly, until it hit an impossible 1 and a half inches.

Standing at the foot of the ladder to the balance beam was a man of larger height, his musculature emphasized by the plate of splint-steel covering his chest and connecting to the solid metal greaves and gauntlets on his legs and arms. At his hip was a large blade, a thing somewhere between a longsword and a big-ass piece of metal on a stick (likely a bastard sword), and on his back was a great "tower" of a shield.

Get it? Tower? Cause it's a … tower … shield …

I crack myself up.

The brown-haired man stood with a hand held to his face in an exasperated manner, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that I couldn't hear. His ire seemed to be directed towards the child climbing the ladder next to him.

A toddler, standing just about three feet tall, pulled itself up the steps made for someone a little taller than them. Upon scampering up a few steps, the young boy turned and-

Sweet mother of fucking shit! Either that is an alcoholic Halfling, or someone is a very, very bad parent.

I mean shit, I assumed the guy was a child, seeing as he's literally like 3 and-a-half feet tall, but that's what I get for assuming I guess. I don't know a single child who could climb up like 7 or 8 steps with a half full tankard of ale in one hand and five empty bottles of non-descript liquor hanging on his belt. Strapped to his belt on the left side of his body (I was on the right and it's hanging flush to his body) was a beautifully crafted rapier in its sheath and the (as weird as it is to say) man was wearing a garish set of parade armor that almost seemed to make a mockery of the Chelaxian style (Which I totally stand by. Seriously. Fuck those guys.) but just added to my initial impression of him being a little kid, I mean, it's not that hard to believe that a dude would dress his kid in such brightly colored, fabulously styled clothing

My attention thoroughly captivated by the incredibly odd pair, I fail to notice myself slowly drifting closer to them, finally reaching hearing distance, mid-conversation

"-no way in hell I'm letting you do this" The larger man stated simply. "This is basically cheating, and I will not stand for it, you can't expect me to just let you go.'

"Oh, piss off Daerion, it's just one little wooden beam, I can walk it with absolutely no issue." The Halfling waves the tankard before his face, a gesture directed towards the brown-haired man, who I now know is named Daerion.

"That is the issue, you alcoholic gremlin, you're half-drunk and about to win all the prize money meant for someone who is twice your size who would experience double the challenge." Daerion crosses his arms, a scowl adorning his face, an expression that doesn't seem all too uncommon of an occurrence. "You might as well be cheating."

"So? What's the worst that could happen?"

"You could break a small child's heart by winning what amounts to a handful of spare change for our profession, all because you want to look cool."

"Your point? I'm a hero, I'm supposed to look cool!" The halfling puffs out his chest and puts his hands on his hips, alcohol slowly dribbling out of the tilted tankard. Silence prevails between the two for a moment as Daerion glares up at the halfling, who is now standing just before the beam having added his own gold to the pot. Before he can take the first step to begin the challenge, Daerion speaks up again.

"Callidus, if you take so much as one step onto that balance beam, I'm going to tie you to the back of my horse and run him over some particularly sharp rocks, after stripping you down to your skivvies."

I couldn't help but laugh at the duo, it being clear that the two have some form of history with one another. I turned and began to walk farther into the crowd, but not before I noticed Callidus, as I had discovered the halfling to be named, walk the entire length of the balance beam, any semblance of tipsy drunkenness completely gone as he calmly shoots to the opposite side of the beam without even a tiny peek of a sway.

He picks up the small pouch of coins hanging on a nail at the platform on the end of the beam and bows multiple times to the gathered people, who applaud him with genuine enthusiasm. He jumps down to the ground and takes a second glance at the pouch before shrugging and throwing the bag of money at a nearby child who had been attempting the balance beam for the better half of an hour until Callidus had come along.

Daerion, while visibly less angered by Callidus' little show of altruism, stomped towards the small man, rage visibly etched on his face. Before he could verbally pound the halfling into a bloody pulp, Callidus bumps his fist lightly against his greaves, smiling widely up at him.

"Oh, c'mon Daerion. Get that frown off your face! Heroes don't frown, they smile!" Daerion narrows his eyes down at the halfling before snorting and turning his head, a small smirk on his face.

"You're such a dumbass," he says before giving him a solid smack on the back of the head with his gauntlet.

_Steal the money from the children, they can't possibly resist your strength, _whisper the thoughts in my head.

I can't help but release another laugh as I finish my turn and continue my way down Tower Street, making my way towards the Cathedral square in the northeast corner of town.

As is practically a cornerstone of festival tradition, virtually every shop in town moves a large portion of their merchandise into small booths and storefront market spots, offering discounted, and even sometimes free food to all. I make my way through the hub of the festival, where all the best bakeries line up to pedal their wares to the very fortunate people walking the thoroughfare.

I swipe as much free shit as I can, arms now laden with rolls of both the sweet and the plain variety but stop as my super-keen Tiefling-senses begin to tingle.

Which is to say, I see some real sketchy bullshit and I ain't having none of that shit.

A pair of very tall elves (seriously, the shorter of the two is still about half a foot over 6 feet) bicker in hushed tones in a language foreign to me, which is to say, it most definitely isn't elvish. I creep my way nonchalantly to a booth nearby the pair, straining my hearing to try and pick up what they say when I notice one of them switches to a different language.

"You have no right to be speaking that tongue, brother mine. That is a childhood mistake that aught be left as such." The shorter of the two elves says, his short gray hair mussed up and tangled, roots and twigs turning it into almost a literal bird's nest.

"Would you can it, Fëanor? Here I am trying to reconnect, get some of that brotherly love flowing again, and you just can't help but shoot me down? What kind of brother are you?" The taller one, long luxurious hair seemingly brushed with impeccable care, clicks his tongue and flashes a roguish smile.

"A better one than you evidently." Fëanor curtly states, his face an impassive mask, but violet eyes glinting with emotion, "as a child I may have been willing to take part in your petty schemes and illicit activities, but that was before you vanished and started taking things too far." He points his fingers at the ground behind him and speaks a few words in the short, flowing language the two spoke in prior to the shift. "You may be older than me by a few minutes, Wulfe, but you never seemed to stop being 110."

So, I only came over here to play a game at being the nosey eavesdropper on a conversation that, as I was technically right about, seemed very suspicious to me. So, imagine my surprise when, at the location Fëanor pointed at earlier, a large flower bud bursts out of the ground.

Tan in pigment and bearing a multitude of warts that fluctuate all over the rainbow in color, the flower bud seems to be the size of one of the two elves. It breaches the earth, kicking up dust and dirt and causing a small amount of commotion amongst the people in the street before it _splits open and reveals a gaping maw of pale white teeth._

Holy god damn, motherfucking shit. That is **the** most terrifying thing I have ever seen, ever.

And I've walked in on my mother and step-father rutting like animals in heat.

The plant _thing_ pulled itself out of the ground using its roots until it stood on four of the titanic bastards, each one as thick around as my thigh. A spreading crack signified the opening of its mouth and a red tongue lolled out, viscous green fluid dripping down from its tip and onto the ground where it sizzled briefly and left a dark scorch mark.

Acid. The thing drools _fucking acid_.

Fëanor pats the plant-thing on the head before climbing up onto it, sitting with his legs crossed like some wise sage. "Brother mine, if you truly wish to make things right between us, you need to grow up." The plant begins to waddle down the street, the elf on its head sitting serenely, as though he isn't aware of just how bizarre that whole scenario just was.

Wulfe, the elf left behind, stares at the receding back of his brother, throwing a curse to the ground in a sharp tongue before shaking his head, "Fine, fuck you too, Fëanor. I can do this without you." He casts his shifty gaze around the people in the square and darts under one of the awnings hanging out in front of one of the buildings lining the streets, eyeing the purses of the men and women walking by.

Seriously dude? You're going to be a pickpocket in broad daylight, during a festival, no less. No, fuck that.

I begin to tail the man, him being so tall that once you spot him, he's hard to miss, even in a large crowd such as the one we're currently weaving through, like salmon swimming upstream.

I manage to keep a good enough eye on him that once he snatches the purse of a rather plain woman looking through the wares on display at a booth, I'm on him like stink on a monkey.

You see, he might be taller, so his strides are significantly greater than mine, but I know how to run, properly that is. I've got _a lot_ of practice running away or after people who have a natural advantage on me, so let's just say I catch up to him with no problem.

I grab his wrist and pull, feeling as there is a moment of resistance followed by all the strength in the arm giving way as I pull his arm straight back.

_Break his arm, just a sharp tug and a jab of the palm and his radius and ulna will shatter into so many pretty little pieces, _my blood urges.

I yank the coin pouch out of his hand as he gasps and lets out one keen note of pain. Recoiling away from him, I give him a hard shove as I turn to return the coin pouch.

"Next time, bastard, it won't be your arm I hurt." I throw over my shoulder, feeling a bit shaken. He snaps back at me.

"It wasn't even my arm, you bitch!" Wulfe snarls as he presses a hand against his chest, ragged gasps of pain leaving his mouth. "Fuck, can't an elf catch a damn break?" He curses as he staggers up and slinks through an alleyway, obviously short of breath.

What's his deal?

I find the lady who lost her coin purse and hand it to her, explaining that I caught the man who took it. I give her a pleasant smile, which she returns, but it's easy enough for me to pick up on the moment of still surprise when she takes note of my pale skin and dark red eyes. Sure did wish I had one of those cowls that covered the entirety of my face, but I got what I could afford. At least she's nice about me being a freak.

I continued to walk through town, just taking in the sights, enjoying the atmosphere of a town too wrapped up in the hustle and bustle of a festival to really remember any of their other problems. People throughout town forgot about their financial troubles, their disputes with their friends, old rivalries flared in jovial and peaceful ways rather than in wrathful displays of anger. I figured that if everyone else can just kick back, relax and enjoy the festival, then I could too, y'know? Everyone else gets to take a lazy day, so I figured I would treat myself to one too.

Apparently, karma really, really thought it owed me a day that was anything but lazy.

Just before the beginning of my overall favorite portion of any festival, lunch, Sandpoint went ahead and arranged another cornerstone of small-town festivals; speeches.

Have you ever seen 1,000 people gathered in one place before? It's a hell of a lot more people than you'd normally visualize. Is it feasible that all 1,000 people could cram themselves in one town square just under twelve-hundred square feet in size? Oh absolutely. Did they actually do that? No.

You see, there's this misconception that, out of a population of 1,000 people, the entirety of town would be present at a festival at one instant. No, that's probably one of the biggest pieces of horseshit I've ever heard, ever. People have lives, people have shit to do that they can't afford to just put off for the entirety of a day. Hell, half of the town at least respects Erastil, being an agricultural community, and right now? It's Harvest Week, odds are that most people are busy working in the fields, trying to get their shit _out _of the ground before the early winter monsoons hit.

Oh yeah, Varisia is a temperate climate that gets fucking _monsoons_ in the early winter. Talk about whacky weather.

So, considering it's the second most important part of the festival (the other being the actual release of the titular Swallowtail Butterfly, coupled with the consecration of their brand new, super huge, multi-religious cathedral), let's be generous and say just about 700 people were able to make it.

All things considered, no one's personal bubble has been invaded. Call it a win in my books.

The crowd talks amongst themselves, the plaza filled with vibrant life as people laugh boisterously and talk about the games, parents sharing anecdotes of previous festivals with their children, too young to remember. A young boy chases a girl slightly taller than him, toy sword in his hand.

It's kind of sad that this is the most at home I've ever felt, and I'm nowhere near my home.

The crowd shushes itself gently as a plump woman steps up to the podium set up just before the gates to the cathedral. Young of face and red of hair, the shorter woman smiles not at all unlike the smile a mother would present her children. The love this woman, Mayor Kendra Deverin (C'mon, do you really think I would spend a couple days in this town and _not_ learn the names of the more important people?) was beloved by the people she governed, treating them almost like her children; a trait, I am told, she inherited from her father who was mayor before her. She clears her throat and begins her speech.

"I thank you one and all for attending the Swallowtail Festival," she pauses to let the crowd cheer and clap, the smile on her face only growing with matronly love and joy, "and I would like to say that I am quite pleased at how open and inviting our town has been to the lovely folks who have traveled from as far as Magnimar to celebrate with us today." Another round of cheers causes the mayor to politely pause in her speech, nodding as a sly smile begins to stretch across her face.

"Why yes, even Larz managed to lift his bloodshot eyes from his precious tannery, force his back to unbend with how long he's been spending over the table, and marched his way up here to participate in the festivities." Raucous laughter joined with playful jeers and catcalls fill the crowd as one of the larger men in town smacks the aforementioned workaholic on his back, the older man rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, but I can easily see the small smile he tries to hide from his face.

"I would like to thank you all again for opening your hearts and homes to those that would make the voyage out here to enjoy the day with us, what with how dangerous the roads have been as of late." Well shit, if that ain't an ominous statement, I don't know what is. "The kindness of my town never ceases to warm my heart. Please, enjoy the rest of your day here in Sandpoint, and may the Starsong go with you!" The crowd happily applauded as Kendra stepped down the stairs, a few people responding with a quietly uttered "and the Great Dreamer guide you."

Ah, organized religion. Better than widespread cults, but full of odd sayings and traditions that would easily confuse anyone who isn't familiar with them.

After a short time, the crowd went back to idle chatter, filling the space with noise as we waited for the next speaker to step up to the podium. I could see a handful of people break away and return to other portions of the festival, or perhaps go home. I didn't fully blame them for wanting to leave, speeches aren't really my thing usually either but hey, when in Sandpoint. Y'know what I'm saying?

After probably about five or six minutes of sitting around the next speaker, a dour looking man in his younger years, a chainmail hood pulled down showing short cut black hair peppered with stress grays, stepped up to the podium.

Sheriff Belor Hemlock, a strong man who's something of a hero in the local area, having been responsible for the apprehending of one Jervis Stoot, the infamous serial killer who wreaked havoc on the town some ten years ago. The stories tell that the previous sheriff, an ex-city guardsman from Magnimar, was the last of Stoot's (or as the town knew him prior his identity being revealed, "The Chopper") victims, as Hemlock rallied the guard and led them to where he suspected the killer's lair was, finding him and putting him to justice.

Just goes to show you, even in small towns like this, people can still end up going batshit crazy.

Hemlock clears his throat and taps on the podium a few times, waiting for everyone to give him their full attention.

"Right, right." He grumbles, his baritone voice bouncing back from the buildings behind us, "We've had a nice week of celebrations, but today's the real deal folks. Tonight, we roll out the kegs and pop the corks, as our good friends and neighbors cook their best meals for us," He pauses and raises a hand when the crowd raises their voices in merry cheer.

"We get to talk to friends both old and new around the fire as we celebrate the consecration of our brand-new cathedral. However, that doesn't mean that tonight anything goes. Please folks, be safe around the bonfire, and if you know you can't handle five tankards of ale, stop at four" I turn my head and laugh, my mind's eye filled with visions of a man about three-feet tall, guzzling down full kegs of ale.

"I would ask for a moment of silence to remember those lost when the last cathedral burned down." Ah, I had heard that was what happened, but I wasn't all too inclined to learn more. The idea of people dying makes me … uncomfortable to say the least. I look around and see as the people around me fold their hands and bow their heads, and I can feel the weight of something press around me as I turn. The darkness in my mind whispering things I'd rather not hear during a festival of all days.

Yeah, I'm a party pooper like that.

Hemlock thanks the crowd and steps off the stage to polite applause. After he's left there is a great lull where no one else takes the stage and the crowd grows just a tad bit restless, myself included. From what I understand, these speeches are supposed to end with the consecration of the temple and the releasing of the Swallowtails, but here we are, no butterflies, no speeches, all boredom.

Lonjiku Kaijitsu I begin to make my way out of the crowd, drawing a couple of odd looks from people still patiently waiting. I pull up my hood to try and block the feel of their gazes and overhear a couple of conversations as I leave,

"Well, I heard Mr. Kaijitsu caught one nasty cold the other day. My sister's niece is one of his maids and she said he was still sleepin' earlier this mornin'."

"He's getting' up there in years, that's fer sure. S'pose it would've been kind o' him to let someone know if he weren't gon' show, but he's never been the most considerate man."

"Oh yeah, you remember when Ameiko jumped ship, sayin' she wanted to be an adventurer. Was 'fraid Lonjiku was gon' need an ice bath after all that screamin', what with how hot his blood must o' been."

Any more information I could have hoped to snag before I left was squashed by a handsome man of shorter height, hair and beard meticulously groomed and braided, rushing up onto the stage, slightly out of breath and rousing a big cheer out of the crowd with expert showmanship. I give a little laugh as the return of enthusiasm is simply infectious, and my stomach gives a rumble. I finish my trek to the outskirts of the crowd and slip away to grab something to eat.

Down the street from the cathedral plaza, a large collection of banquet tables had been set up to provide for the large amount of people who would be coming in and out of the area looking for meals. The oaken tables had obviously been assembled recently for the festival; the wood only bearing the scars of normal wear-and-tear as a tree than any kind of use as a table, a tear a small hunk off of a loaf of bread sitting on the counter of a booth and take a wedge of cheese to go with it (hey! It's not theft if they're giving them out for free anyway) and give the area a little looksie. I'm completely alone.

Well, almost.

Sitting near the end of one of the tables, entirely by their lonesome, was a cloaked figure. Tall and lean, they lean over the table, pouring over a small book held in a bandage wrapped hand. Sensing a kindred spirit, I smile to myself, cracking my knuckles and resolving to make a new friend.

I waltz my way over, making sure my hair isn't an absolute mess and idly fingering the flat bases of my horns, making sure the black keratin doesn't poke out from the stark white of my hair. I plop myself down across from my soon-to-be-friend and turn on my limitless charm and undeniably hilarious personality.

"Why, I almost missed you sitting here amongst all this shade wearing so much black What's got you over here all alone, Mr. Tall, Dark, and a wearing a hood which keeps me from being able to see if you're handsome or not." I wait for him to respond with grace, patience, an air of nobility that would draw those of a friendly disposition towards me.

He gets up, not even bothering to stop reading, and walks over to the opposite end of the table.

"Jeez, that was kinda rude." I mutter under my breath, scooting after him. I prop my elbows onto the table and rest my chin on my folded hands, offering the man an easy smile "Hey, I totally get it! I'm not a huge fan of new people either, I'm really putting myself out here right now, and I feel vaguely uncomfortable!" My smile feels a little strained after he gives a disinterested grunt. I do my best to keep my eye twitch under control and stick out my hand.

"Howdy! Sorry that I've started us off on a bad foot here," I laugh a little, "my name's Severine, it's a pleasure to meet you!"

Silence.

"Now you take my hand and do the same."

More silence.

"Do you think Sheep's Milk in a bowl of oats is a Beverage, Broth, or Sauce?"

An idle turn of a page.

I grit my teeth, feeling my patience wear itself thin-

_Fuck him,_ my blood beckons, _set him aflame. Render him to ashes and force feed those ashes to all his kin. Let this town tremble with sheer awe in the face of your devastating might and obliterating will. All shall know true-_

-so naturally I grab my own hand and give it a firm shake, beginning in a mocking tone; "Hello there! I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Severine, and please forgive my lack of manners, my mother was a two-pinch street-whore who never taught me how to read and my father was one of her many customers. My name is tall, dark, mysterious, condescending asshole." The knuckles of his free hand whiten for a moment as he clenches his fist, and he closes the book with a snap. My lips curl and I sneer at him as he tilts his hooded face in my direction, my blood starting to _sing_ as I feel the approaching conflict.

His face (or at least the part I can see, his cowl casts a lot of shadow, obscuring all but his nose and the lowest parts of his face) is heavily bandaged, much like his hands. Not a patch of skin is visible, apart from his lips which are a waxy-white and lined with cracks. My limited amount of medical experience leads me to believe the man before me likely has extensive burns, burns which are bad enough to warrant him wrapping himself up. The cracked lips open,

"Severine. You are a bold one, begone!" His voice sounded like brick scrapping across brick, rough, coarse, and dry. "You interrupt my chance to rest." Probable cause; excessive inhaled smoke, or excessive screaming damaging the vocal cords.

"Alright, listen here fucker. I came over here trying to be nice, and make a friend, and you're being a right bastard—"

"I didn't come here to make friends. I came here to rest, eat, and be on my way come tomorrow morning."

"Well, well, well. It looks like we have something in common after all. You know what people who have stuff in common do? They become friends." He goes silent again before reopening the book and standing. He turns his gaze back to the words on the page before turning on his heel and beginning to walk away. I feel my blood boil just underneath my skin and my self-restraint crumbles just a bit more. I stomp after him and grab him by the elbow, "Alright. Look here, asshole, I don't know—"  
He tears his arm from me and stretches his fingers outward, his palm held aloft. For a moment his fingertips glow before his entire hand is engulfed with a flickering orange flame.

"You will leave me be. You will walk away from this place and you will not interact with me again, woman. You will do this of your free will, or I shall force you to." He clenched his hand into a fist and the fire disappeared, banished just as quickly as it had been called.

"I would like to see you try." I slowly drag my left foot back, lowering my center of gravity and tilting my right shoulder to the ground, left arm reaching back to grasp the comforting wood of my quarterstaff, "You want to dance, darling? I so love a good game of ass-kicking." He rocked idly on his heels, more of a tick than in any form of anticipation. He seems to stare at me for a moment before looking away from me with a audible 'tsk'.

"This 'game' is over before it even began. I have no interest trading blows with a petulant child. Go home and beat on your siblings, little girl, the grownups have better things to do." I feel my face heat up and for once, I'm not trying to ignore the voices whispering in my blood.

"You talk a lot of smack for an unarmed man who looks like he flinches in the face of a struck match."

"Unarmed? I am never unarmed." He reaches toward his hip, concealed by the cloak. The raspy drag of steel in a sheath alerts me to the presence of a blade, but he does not fully draw the weapon. He holds his other hand out, the fingers twisted into a vague shape and the slight hum of energy gathered.

We size each other up, neither of us moving. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. He relaxes, turning on his heel and beginning to walk away.

"We're done here." He throws behind him, not even bothering to turn his head over his shoulder

"What the hell!? Get back here bastard and fight me like a man!" I just couldn't help it anymore; the rational part of my brain having taken a backseat to the more primal forces calling for action in my blood.

"You are not worth my time, _girl_. Play with someone a little closer to your age, like the child you are."

"I am not a child!" I stick my tongue out after him. "Whatever asshole, all I wanted was your damned name, but if that's too much for you then fine, I'll just take my sparkling personality elsewhere. Have a shitty life." I holstered my quarterstaff, turned on my heel and stomped away, the fire of my temper quickly dying away and leaving me with just a cold emptiness. "Fuck, I didn't think I was that close to snapping." I cursed and kicked a rock just as I round a corner and lose sight of the plaza and cloaked man. A deep breath in, and I clench my fist, as I let the breath out, I loosen my grasp and thus, metaphorically, loosen my grasp on my anger as the last dredges of the emotion slide out of me. I slide down the fall I pressed my back to, gazing in the general direction of the plaza.

"I'm sorry."

A significant lack of pep in my step is the only thing I let show in regard to my crushing sense of disappointment.

Look. I know it's childish to be upset about some random person not liking me, but I can't really help it; I'm a people pleaser. To be honest, I blame it on my father (not the real one) and the way he raised me.

There's a story there, remind me to tell you all about it one day, omnipotent being reading my thoughts.

I came to a stop once I rediscovered the crowd in the main square. My pride may have been hurt and my stomach may be empty, but I am determined to not let that ruin my Swallowtail Festival dammit! The speeches continued while I was gone and by continued, I mean that same guy who was starting when I left was still talking by the time I got back. I roll my eyes as he plugs his establishment, the Sandpoint Theater (what a creative name), and steps down, leaving the crowd in excited anticipation as a pair of acolytes pull a wagon covered with a tarp into the square. I can see, when the fabric gets caught by the wind, an incredibly large collection of this festival's namesake swirling within, contained within a beautiful silver cage.

The crowd gasps when the tarp is pulled down and the butterflies are revealed, their blue-and-black visage mesmerizing to the eyes and we all just couldn't help but be pulled in.

Father Abstalar Zantus, the head priest of Desna and the High-Priest of Sandpoint, knows the allure of the swallowtails. So when he steps up to the podium to deliver the consecration speech and cue the release of the butterflies, he does so with a small blue rock in hand. Smiling at the few people who've noticed him (myself included) and mouthing a few words to those that try to grab the attention of their neighbors, he raises the small blue rock and crushes it in his hands. An incredibly loud thunderclap immediately emanates from the broken stone and all of our attentions are drawn directly back to Abstalar who winces at rubs at one of his ears.

"My apologies," he says with an embarrassed chuckle that the crowd heartily returns. He waits until his ears start ringing, I assume, before opening his mouth again.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Sandpoint, my brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters. Thank you for bringing forth your best selves to celebrate this most holy day as we praise not just Desna, but the gods of many, with the consecration of our brand-new cathedral." The crowd roars in response, their enthusiasm and cheer undeniable.

"When our old chapel caught fire some seven years ago, and we lost those beloved to us, High-Priest Tobyn, Clerics Hyun, Juryth, Heynya, and Tobyn's daughter, Nualia, I think we all knew it was but a matter of time before we rebuilt, greater than before in their name, for their sake. It has been a long and arduous journey, my friends. The blood, sweat, and tears of many have been poured into this Cathedral, which is why it is my honor to consecrate and dedicate this most holy building too—"

A woman screams, shrill, filled with fright. There is no hesitation as the crowd panics, and I draw my quarterstaff. A small green creature darts through the crowd, slashing at a citizen, but its crude blade strikes steel, not flesh, as a shield is placed between them. Daerion, the man with the halfling before, puts himself between the citizen and the goblin, blade in hand and shield strapped to his other arm.

Not wanting to miss out on the fighting, I lunge forward to join the fray.

But I'm stopped by unimaginable pain, pain so great it nearly drives me to my knees as my stomach feels hot and wet and my lower back feels cold. I look down.

Someone's driven a blade through my gut.


End file.
